A Scratch in Time
by catharticone
Summary: The events of Tooth and Claw leave their mark on Rose.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: **__"Doctor Who" is the BBC's property. I'm just borrowing, honest._

_**Author's Note: **__This takes place immediately after "Tooth and Claw."_

_Special thanks to Sonic Jules for support, encouragement, beta services, and the title!_

* * *

They were still laughing over thoughts of the royal family and their penchant for lupine activities as the Doctor dematerialised the TARDIS, leaving the Scottish plain vast and barren once again.

As the last giggles left her, Rose sank down on the seat next to the console. The waning, temporary euphoria gave way to images of the ghastly, terrifying creature. She had been sincerely frightened by it, yet somehow she'd felt an odd fascination, too. She was glad that the being had been released from its corporeal prison; she's almost been able to experience its joy during those final moments. But then her thoughts turned to Sir Robert. She tried not to remember all the blood…

"Rose? You all right?" The Doctor was standing over her, a worried look on his face.

"Hmm?" She pulled herself back to the present. "'M fine."

"You sure? You look a little pale."

She shook her head. "Jus' tryin' to get the picture of Sir Robert outta my head."

He nodded sympathetically. "I understand."

He smiled down at her and rested a hand against her cheek. She reached up to cover his hand with hers. It was amazing how strong his touch made her feel. He believed in her, trusted her…

And now he was bending down to peer at her side. She looked down to see what had captured his interest.

"Somethin' wrong?" she asked.

He pointed at her flank, near the bottom of her ribcage. "How'd you get that?"

Rose pulled aside the top of her coveralls to see a narrow tear in her shirt. A little dried blood darkened the fabric. She wondered that she hadn't noticed it before, but of course she'd been preoccupied with other things.

"I don't remember," she finally replied.

He looked up at her again, and when their eyes met neither needed to say the words they were thinking. Was it possible that the beast had caught her with a claw? Rose scrolled through her recent memories, replaying each encounter with the werewolf. In the hallway, she'd been awfully close to it, but she didn't think that it had touched her. Still, everything had happened so fast…

"Rose?" the Doctor asked again. He could see that she was trying to recall precisely what had occurred. "Any ideas?"

She shook her head. "I really don't remember. But I don't think it was… y'know."

"Of course not. There were glass and splinters flying all over the place. But why don't you let me have a look at it—get it sorted, just in case."

The smile he gave her was intended as a reassurance, but he thought that it might have been a bit closer to a grimace.

"Yeah, okay," she replied somewhat hesitantly.

He took her hand and pulled her up. She really was exhausted; her legs felt a little wobbly. But then she had been up all night in a very stressful situation, so she deserved to be tired; it was only natural, wasn't it?

The Doctor led Rose down the hallway to his small but well-equipped infirmary. He nodded to the examination couch and said, "Hop up there."

Rose complied, but she felt a bit uncomfortable. Her legs dangled from the couch, taking her back to her childhood and evoking rather unpleasant memories of injections and the vague fear that always accompanied anything medical.

The Doctor removed his glasses from his jacket and slipped them on. He touched her shirt, grasping the fabric lightly, then asked, "May I?"

"Yeah."

He lifted the shirt. The dried blood caused it to stick a bit around the wound, and she winced as he pulled it higher. He leaned in to view the little injury.

"Doesn't look too bad," he said. "It's just a scratch."

"A scratch?" Rose repeated, her voice rising in alarm.

He glanced up at her face. "Like I said before, probably from a glass or wood shard."

She nodded, trying to remain calm. He turned away for a minute, opened a couple of drawers and rummaged about. When he returned to her side, he held a gauze pad saturated in a mild antiseptic solution. He wiped the blood away from the wound carefully, gaze intent upon it as he worked.

"Can you tell what caused it now?" Rose asked after a few moments.

"Mmm, no," he replied in a rather vague tone.

"But you still think it was probably glass or wood, right?" She needed reassurance, needed to hear the words.

He straightened and glanced at her face before dropping the gauze into a small garbage bin. "It's hard to tell, really. Just looking at it, I can't say what caused it."

Rose exhaled slowly. "Is there any other way to find out?"

The Doctor nodded. "I could swab it and do a DNA analysis. If there's any organic material in it other than your own, it'll show up, and I can identify it easily."

"Then that's what you should do."

"Yes?" He squeezed her hand briefly. "All right."

He turned back to the counter and reached into a drawer then a cabinet. Rose couldn't quite see what he was taking out. When he turned around, he said with almost forced pleasantness, "Why don't you lie back."

She complied without question, but when she glanced down at his hands she saw that he held a small scalpel. Her eyes widened.

"What's that for?" she asked.

He stepped back to the couch and rested a hand on her shoulder. "The wound's closed, so I need to reopen it to obtain a sample of anything remaining."

That made sense, of course. "Oh, okay."

The Doctor's hand remained on her shoulder. "Thing is, Rose, I can't give you a topical anaesthetic because it could taint the sample—"

"So it's gonna hurt?" That didn't seem to require an answer, but she added, "How much?"

He smiled rather sadly. "Not much. Did I ever mention that I'm a very good Doctor?"

"All the time, but I never thought you meant this kind of doctor."

"Hmm."

Rose's eyes wandered to the ceiling. "Let's get this over with."

He gave her shoulder a soft rub. "Yes."

She kept her gaze on the ceiling as he lifted her shirt a little more. He had also wheeled over a small metal trolley, and she could see in her peripheral vision that there were a few items set out on a tray, but Rose decided it was best not to look. She trusted the Doctor; she would let him do whatever was necessary.

She felt his fingers press gently on the skin just above and beneath the small injury, then there was a light pressure and a cool sensation all along the length of the wound. It didn't really hurt so much as feel a bit strange… She ventured a glance down and saw blood. Her stomach seemed to roll, images of Sir Robert's mutilated body still fresh in her mind.

She wanted to look away, but somehow she couldn't. The Doctor was intent on his task and didn't look up at her. He reached for a swab on the tray then ran it over the incision. This action brought a definite twinge to the wound. Rose tried not to flinch, but her hand clenched at her side.

After depositing the swab in a small glass tube, he cleaned the wound again with the antiseptic, which fortunately did not sting much, then applied a thin line of something resembling Super Glue. He covered the area with a gauze pad, which he carefully taped in place.

"All done," he informed her, and Rose couldn't help but think that the comment was very typical of a doctor. She decided that she would slug him if he said anything along the lines of "now that wasn't so bad, was it?"

He was smiling down at her, sliding his hand beneath her shoulder to help her to sit. "I can give you something for the pain now if you need it."

"'S okay. It's not that bad."

"You sure?"

She nodded. "How long will the analysis take?"

"A couple of hours," he said. "I need to get a blood sample, too, to separate out the DNA."

Rose supposed that she could endure that; it couldn't be any worse than obtaining the swab from the wound. She held out her arm expectantly.

The Doctor reached back to the countertop as he took her hand. He turned it over then pressed a little instrument about the size of an i-Pod over her wrist. She didn't feel anything but the slight coolness of the metal.

"Okay," he said after a couple of seconds, "that's done."

"That's it?" she asked. "That's how you get a blood sample?"

He appeared a bit perplexed. "Of course. Oh, you thought I was going to use a needle?" He shook his head. "That's so twenty-first century!"

Rose pulled down her shirt. "So is there anything else you need from me?"

He had already moved to a small bank of instruments on another counter. "No." He gave her a quick glance. "Why don't you get some rest? It was a long night."

Rose slid down from the couch. "Yeah, s'pose it was after all."


	2. Chapter 2

The Doctor had equipment that could analyze DNA in a matter of minutes. He wasn't quite sure why he'd told Rose that it would take significantly longer than that. Perhaps he felt a need to cover his bases; if he found anything indicative of contact with the werewolf, he'd need time to figure out what to do.

When the small computer in the lab beeped at him and he read the results, he was glad that he had given himself those additional hours. He checked the samples for the second time, frowning as he did, then moved to another section of the lab to remove some vials and beakers. He knew what needed to be done, but he wished there were another way…

* * *

Nearly three hours had passed before he was ready to tell Rose the news. He walked down the hallway with quiet steps then paused before her door. It was ajar; she always trusted him, even when she was asleep.

He swung open the door. She lay upon her stomach on the bed, partially covered by her pink duvet. Her hair was spread out on the pillow, and one hand lay beside her cheek. In sleep she looked like a child. For a moment the Doctor stood watching her, and he wondered why he had ever invited her to travel with him. She was so young, so vulnerable… But she was strong, too, and bold, and she never backed down from a challenge. Those were the traits that would see her through the next few difficult days.

He sat down on the bed and rested his hand over her back. He could feel her heart beating, a perfectly normal resting rate of 55 beats per minutes. He could sense her body temperature with his palm, and it was also well within the expected range. He ran his hand over her glossy, thick hair. She was healthy, which was very good just now.

Gently he shook her shoulder as he spoke her name. She required a minute or so to rouse, blinking sleepily at him and gathering her bearings. She was still very tired; she had slept perhaps four hours after more than twenty-four of wakefulness. Still, he needed to tell her what he planned to do.

She turned over and sat up, rubbing at her eyes. "'S mornin' already?" she asked, forgetting for a moment that there was really no such easy division of time on the TARDIS.

"Not quite," he smiled at her, "and I'm sorry I had to wake you, but I need to tell you the results of the DNA analysis."

Suddenly Rose jerked to full alertness. All traces of stupor left her, and she reached for his hand automatically. Now her skin felt cold.

"What is it? What did you find?" she asked.

He kept her hand in his. "There were traces of protein containing foreign DNA—"

"So it did scratch me," she finished, the color draining from her face.

"Possibly. But hair is also made of protein, and it could have just been a bit of fur that got into the wound."

"But if it was the claw, then I'm… I'm going to become like him?"

The Doctor squeezed her hand. "No, Rose, you aren't."

"But if it got any of its DNA in me, it'll multiply an' take over, an' change me, right?"

"Not if I can help it." He grinned at her. "And I can!"

Rose blinked. "Really?"

"Yep." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a syringe. "I synthesized a vaccine. It'll prevent the cellular mutation and in essence turn your own immune system into a big ol' fightin' machine that'll knock out the other DNA."

"You did that?" She was clearly surprised.

"Told you, I'm very good."

She smiled. "Yeah."

His pleased expression began to fade. "Thing is, Rose," he began.

"What?"

"You know that when you get a vaccine you're receiving a very weak form of whatever disease you're trying to prevent. It kick starts your immune system into producing antibodies to fight that disease, effectively tricking it into creating permanent defenses. But since you've been given the disease, albeit in a very small and diluted form, sometimes you feel a little ill for a few days. Happens to babies and toddlers all the time…"

"Right. I've seen that with my cousins."

"Well, this vaccine," he glanced at the syringe, "works the same way. I was able to create a very weak form of lycanthropism, which your own immune system will fight off."

Rose froze, her hand gripping his tightly. "So you're sayin' that I'm going to have to become a werewolf for this to work?"

He almost laughed at the huge and inaccurate leap in logic that her little human brain had made. "No, Rose, not at all. You shouldn't have any of the external symptoms. But you're going to feel it inside. You watched that poor creature change. You saw the first signs—increase in metabolic function, for one."

"So I'm not gonna sprout fangs, claws, and nasty hair all over?"

"No."

"Then what's the big deal?"

"I'm afraid that you won't feel very well for a day or so."

"Like how?"

"Fever, some aching, probably muscle cramps—that sort of thing."

"So I'm gonna feel like I have flu?"

He nodded. It wasn't really a bad analogy, although he knew that it wasn't entirely accurate. Still, if it helped her to understand and accept the situation, he decided that there was no need to correct her and cause her worry.

"Think I can handle that." She pushed up the sleeve of the nightshirt she wore. "Go ahead."

He smiled in gratitude. He had been afraid that he'd have to explain more, to tell her details he'd rather she not find out, at least not until she had to. He took a small, packaged antiseptic wipe from his pocket and tore open the foil. He rubbed the pad over her arm then removed the cap from the syringe.

"Hey, wait a minute," she said.

The Doctor's hand froze. "Yes?" he asked as casually as he could manage.

"I thought you said needles were twenty-first century. What's with that?"

He exhaled in relief. "Sorry, Rose. It's still the most effective way to get this into your system."

She shrugged. "Go on, then."

He injected the vaccine into her arm, rather proud of himself for his very light touch. She felt no pain. It was the least he could do for her, really. He pocketed the empty syringe then stood and offered her his hand.

"'M still pretty tired," she said. "Think I'll just go back to sleep for a little longer."

"Nope, come on. Up and at 'em. I want you to have something to eat."

"I'll eat later," she began.

He took her hand and pulled her up. "No time like the present. I'll make you my famous scrambled eggs with cheese. Lots of nice protein, calcium, and vitamin E."

Rose cocked an eyebrow at him. "What, no potassium?"

"Ah, potassium. Good idea. You'll have to have a banana, too."

She stood by the side of the bed. She seemed to be waiting for something.

"Come on," he urged.

"I'll be there in a few minutes. Just let me get dressed."

"You don't need to do that," he said, then wished he had kept quiet.

She looked at him quizzically. "Why not?"

"I think you should go back to bed after you've eaten," he answered rather quickly. "Get some more sleep. No need to waste time getting dressed if you're just going to get undressed again." He grabbed her robe from a chair and held it out to her. "Besides, dining today's going to be very informal."

She took the robe and slipped it on. "Can I at least run a brush through my hair and splash some water on my face?"

"All right, but hurry. My eggs taste best when they're just out of the pan." He gave her a wink then left the room, the plastered-on smile fading as soon as he entered the hallway.


	3. Chapter 3

Rose finished the eggs and the banana, and she downed the first two glasses of orange juice that the Doctor offered her, but that was all she could manage. He wanted her to eat some more, but she declined. All she really wanted was some coffee or tea, but he muttered something about caffeine being a diuretic and keeping well hydrated and simply refilled her juice glass.

She pushed it away. "No, thanks. 'M full now."

"You sure?" He waggled an eyebrow at her. "Just one more glass?"

Rose shook her head. "No. The other two are still sloshin' around in my stomach. Don't think I can handle any more."

He frowned a little. "Feeling queasy?"

"No, just full."

Her answer elicited a small smile from him. "Right, then. Back to bed."

"I'm awake now," Rose said. "S'pose I'll have a shower an' maybe read a magazine or somethin'."

"You sure? You only slept a few hours, and you must be tired after that long night—"

"I'm okay. Maybe I'll have a lie-down later."

He seemed to want to say something else, but he simply turned back to the sink to fuss about with the dishes. Rose stood and, after a quick thank you, returned to her room and prepared for a shower.

* * *

She had just finished drying her hair when the first little chill ran through her. She thought that there was just a slight draft in the room, but she still felt cold even after donning a cosy jumper. She was starting to feel tired again, too—and not merely sleepy, but a slow, dully aching exhaustion that was gradually creeping over her.

Maybe the Doctor'd had a good idea when he'd suggested keeping her nightclothes on. She wanted to return to her bed, but she felt so chilly that the thought of undressing was quite unappealing. She sat down on the mattress and pulled the comforter up around her shoulders. She'd just sit here for a few minutes until she warmed up, then she'd see how she felt. Maybe she'd still have a look at that magazine.

Ten minutes later, Rose was shivering. The dull aching was blossoming into a full-blown mother of a headache. Her forehead throbbed, and the light in the room hurt her eyes. She recalled the Doctor telling her something about the TARDIS's lights dimming to suit the occupant's needs, but it seemed that this function of the time ship was, like so many other things, temporarily on the fritz.

Rose slid off the bed and stumbled toward the wall, hand extended toward the light switch next to the door. The floor seemed to rock gently beneath her feet, and for a moment she thought that the Doctor was fiddling with one of the landing programs again.

She tottered, feet tangling beneath her, and then she tumbled to the floor.

* * *

The Doctor had tried to concentrate on the book he was reading, but his thoughts continually turned to Rose. He checked his pocket watch every few minutes, reworking calculations in his mind, trying to figure out just when she would start to feel the effects of the vaccine.

It was difficult to know, really, because he'd never actually witnessed anyone undergo this particular therapy. He'd created the vaccine just for Rose, and, while he had a very good idea about what it would do to her body, the precise timing was still a matter of conjecture.

He'd settled himself in a study just across the hall from Rose's room. He kept the door open, listening in case she should call for him. When he heard a faint thud, he stood and hurried into the hall.

Her door was ajar, so he thrust his head in to find her on her hands and knees on the floor. He helped her to stand then guided her to the bed. She was squinting at him with watery, red eyes.

"The lights," she said immediately. "Can you turn them down?"

"Are they bothering your eyes?" he asked.

She nodded miserably. He could see that she'd grown pale; all of the colour had left her cheeks. He pressed his palm over her forehead. She was cool, temperature slightly below normal. The first stage of the process had begun.

"Can you tell me how you're feeling?" he asked, pulling the comforter up over her.

"Little cold," she replied. "Bit of a headache, too."

"Bit?" he questioned, admiring her efforts to downplay her discomfort.

"Lights would help," she murmured.

"Lights, low," he instructed, and the room grew considerably dimmer.

"Thanks," Rose said. She closed her eyes as her head sank down to the pillow. "Sorry, 'm not very good company just now," she added.

"It's all right, Rose," he reassured her.

He rested his hand softly against her right temple. He could feel the pulse there; it was slightly elevated, probably due to the pain she was experiencing. He couldn't give her anything to ease her headache; it was critical that the vaccine run its course through her system without the interference of any other chemicals. But he could still try to keep her as comfortable as possible.

He moved his other hand to her left temple and guided his fingertips in small, tandem circles. His thumbs rotated down to the base of her skull, just behind each ear, where he applied light but steady pressure for perhaps thirty seconds.

"Mmm," Rose murmured. "Tha's better."

"Yes? I'm glad."

He continued the treatment until he felt her pulse slowing and noted the gentle decrease in respiration that indicated sleep. That was good; she could use all the rest that her body would permit. Slowly he pulled his hands away then walked quietly from the room. He returned a few minutes later with a small bin of supplies that he'd gathered while she was showering.

Then he settled into the chair near the bed. Now that the process had started, he had no intention of leaving her side.

* * *

Rose wasn't sure whether it was the pain in her head, the deep ache in her bones, or the new waves of chills that awoke her. All she knew was that she was damned uncomfortable; this was almost as bad as that horrible flu she'd had a couple of years ago.

She heard herself moan and felt a surge of shivers run through her body. Her hands reached for the comforter, but it was moving of its own accord, tucking itself securely around her shoulders. She cracked open an eye to see the Doctor hovering above her. His face reflected concern.

"Here Rose, try to stay still so that you can keep the cover around you."

Had she been moving about? She couldn't remember but supposed she must have been.

"So cold," she said.

"I know. I'm turning up the heat; it should feel warmer in here in just a few minutes."

She noticed that he'd removed his jacket and vest and wore just his shirt; the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He was still bending over her, resting the back of his hand against her cheek.

"Can you tell me what hurts?" he asked.

She blinked in surprise. "How'd you know?"

He gave her a small, sad smile and a little half-shake of his head. "It's not important." He stroked her cheek gently.

"M' head," she replied, finally.

"Yes. Anything else?"

Rose closed her eyes for a moment. "Everythin' else."

Indeed, when she took a quick inventory of her body, she couldn't find one thing that didn't hurt or ache or throb. Even her hair was sore. Cold fingers of pain kneaded at her stomach, and they were beginning to stoke some queasiness. She swallowed, trying to push the feeling away.

The Doctor had moved across the room to rummage through a drawer. He produced a blanket and begin spreading it over her. Once it was arranged, he pulled the sonic screwdriver from his pocket and aimed it at the edge of the covering. Rose saw a quick pulse of light.

"The blanket has thermal fibres woven through it," he told her. "It's going to begin warming in just a moment. The heat should help your muscles relax; that'll take away some of the pain."

She nodded, only attending half-way to his words. She was more focused on her stomach, which was now roiling toward full-blown nausea. She swallowed hard, but she could feel the bile rising. Abruptly she sat up, unable to suppress a groan at the new surge of pain this action brought to her whole body.

"Lie back, Rose," the Doctor admonished kindly.

"No," she gasped out, "bathroom—gotta—" She clamped a hand over her mouth, desperately hoping to avoid a major disaster all over the Doctor's nice high-tech blankie.

She rolled out of bed with an unexpected little burst of energy. The Time Lord stepped back for an instant in surprise, and she stumbled past him, tottering at full speed toward the bath. She flung herself toward the toilet, falling hard to her knees. She vomited an instant later, hands clinging to the commode base. It was very cold, and she was absolutely freezing yet strangely hot at the same time as her stomach expelled the remnants of her breakfast with unpleasant force. She coughed and retched, fighting to remain on her kness and not sink down to the ground.

She felt the Doctor's arm slip around her shoulders. He was holding her up, supporting her, running a hand over her hair and down her back. Her stomach continued convulsing, and she retched again. Her arms and legs and back were so cold. She shivered, feeling an odd heat gnawing at her stomach and face. How could she be hot and cold at the same time?

After a few minutes her stomach quieted, and she collapsed into the Doctor's waiting arms. He held her to his chest, keeping one arm around her while he reached up with the other to turn on the tap. She heard the water running, and soon she saw him pull a flannel from the hook on the wall and hold it under the water.

He wiped her face with the warm cloth, and only then did she realize that she was drenched in cold sweat. She was still shivering. He patted her face with a soft towel then produced a blanket from somewhere, tucking it around her.

"We… gonna stay… in here?" she stammered through chattering teeth. The tile floor felt like ice beneath her bare legs.

"For just a little while, until your stomach settles down."

She nodded miserably. He wrapped the blanket around her a bit more snugly. She felt his hand touch her forehead then rest against her neck for a few seconds. Then her stomach cramped again, and she began to double over. The nausea had yielded to pure pain. Rose pulled her legs up instinctively, trying to curl up against the pain.

"Rose? What is it?" The Doctor's voice was gentle but urgent.

"Stomach hurts," she said. She shivered again, a convulsive jerk of her entire body.

His hand moved to her belly. He pressed lightly over her stomach, just below her ribcage. His other hand touched her shoulder. "Lie back against me," he said softly, his mouth very close to her ear.

"Uhn, no," she protested weakly. Her current semi-foetal position seemed to help the pain just the tiniest bit.

"Come on, Rose." His arm slid across her chest, and he eased her up. It hurt.

However, in a few seconds she was resting against his chest and his hand was moving in small circles over her stomach. He was kneading very gently, easing some of the rigidity in the muscles. After a time the pain diminished, and the nausea subsided. The Doctor helped her back to bed. Several spots on her jumper attested to her bout with nausea. God, she was a mess.

"Can you get me somethin' else to wear?" she rasped.

The Time Lord quickly fetched a thick, flannel nightshirt from her drawer. She managed to remove her clothes and slip into the snuggly garment while he was tidying up the bathroom. Thoroughly exhausted and dreadfully sore, she crawled beneath the duvet miserably. The Doctor returned and tucked the blankets around her.

"Anything else I can do for you?" he asked.

Rose hesitated for just an instant. She had felt some small comfort resting against his chest with his hand moving softly over her. She looked up at him and said, "Would you… could you do that again?"

"Do what?" He smoothed a bit of hair away from her forehead.

"Hold me."

He smiled and kicked off his shoes then slipped under the covers. His arm wrapped around her, and his hand rubbed her shoulders and back. She cuddled up against him and closed her eyes. Sleep would make everything better… sleep and the Doctor.


	4. Chapter 4

The Doctor lay beside Rose quietly, listening to her breathe. He kept one arm loosely around her even after she fell asleep. He thought it provided her with a little comfort, and it allowed him to keep tabs on her heart rate and temperature. He knew that it was only a matter of time before both began to soar.

The warming blanket had quelled her chills after a short time. For a little while she had languished at a comfortable 37 degrees. But that didn't last long. He could feel her growing warmer; her temperature was rising quickly. He waited a few more minutes then slipped out of bed.

He removed the heated blanket. She had no need for it now. He reached into the bin from the infirmary and pulled out a small aural thermometer. He checked her temperature; it was 39.7. He hadn't expected it to spike so fast. Rose's cheeks were flushed, and perspiration glimmered over her skin. He brushed his fingers over her hot brow.

She made a small noise, not quite a moan but certainly indicative of discomfort. He retrieved a stethoscope from the bin and unfastened the top few buttons of Rose's nightshirt. Adjusting the instrument in his ears, he checked her heart and lungs. Both were functioning well, although her heart rate and respiration were up a little. He checked her for dehydration; fortunately that had not yet become a concern.

There was really nothing to do at the moment but wait. He settled back into his chair and watched her face, occupying his thoughts by naming each muscle that twitched or tightened as the virus continued its invasion of her cells.

* * *

Hot. She was so, so hot, and her entire body felt strangely parched yet drenched in sweat at the same time. Her head was throbbing again, and every muscle and bone and millimeter of skin hurt. Something mercifully cool touched her ear, and Rose opened her eyes.

The Doctor was bending over her, and after a few seconds she saw his hand pull back from her head and realized that he'd done something to her ear. Glasses in place, he studied the small item in his hand for a moment with a deepening frown. Rose noticed that he had a stethoscope draped around his neck. With his clean white shirt and rolled up sleeves, he appeared every inch the competent physician. All that was missing was the white coat. Somehow the image of him as a proper doctor was surprising yet comforting. He could help her; he could do something about the pain.

Then he glanced at her face and saw that she was awake. His expression immediately switched to a gentle smile.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Felt better," she rasped out.

"Yes." He rested his hand against her cheek, and it was wonderfully cool.

Her two-word response had exhausted her, but she really needed to ask about the pain. He gave her a brief respite by lifting her head and holding a glass of water to her lips. She swallowed a little, but it made her throat tickle then begin to burn, so she refused any more.

"You sure you can't manage another sip or two?" he was asking. His expression had cycled back to concern.

"Mmm—no."

He set the glass on the bedside table.

"Hot," she whispered.

He nodded sympathetically. "That's the fever. It shouldn't get much worse, though. It's been stable for the last two hours."

"Hurts," she added, too weak to say any more but pleading with her eyes, hoping he'd understand.

He took her hand between his cool palms. "I know, Rose. But I can't give you anything for the pain. It would interfere with your body's response to the vaccine. The only way this is going to work is if it runs its course naturally. Your body has to develop antibodies on its own."

"Aspirin?" she croaked, feeling tears prickle in her eyes.

He shook his head sadly. "I can't risk it."

Rose felt hot tears roll down her cheeks. The Doctor looked away for a moment then reached over to the table. She closed her eyes. After a few seconds she felt something blissfully cold against her cheek. She opened her eyes half-way to see the Doctor wiping a wet cloth over her skin.

"All right?" he asked.

She nodded imperceptibly, but he seemed to understand. He bathed her face and neck, and she felt just the tiniest bit cooler. After a few minutes he set aside the cloth and rubbed her forehead softly with his fingertips. Her headache eased a little, and Rose closed her eyes.

His cool hands moved down to massage her shoulders and arms gently, and her body yielded to sleep.

* * *

It was less than an hour later when her fever spiked to 42. The Doctor had been leafing through one of Rose's magazines, finally abandoning his incessant staring at her. But when she made a little noise, he glanced at her. Her skin had a deeper flush, and perspiration drenched her face and neck. He grabbed the thermometer and bent to place it in her ear. A hand on her cheek, however, told him as much as the small electronic device did.

She was breathing rapidly now, and her pulse had grown quicker but weaker. He checked her heart and lungs again. This time he detected a slight arrhythmia in her heartbeat. He didn't like the strain that the disease was placing upon the organ, but he reminded himself that she was young and healthy and should be able to withstand this brief yet intense physiological exertion.

He was not happy, either, about the dehydration that was rapidly settling in. It was in all likelihood resonsible for the arrhythmia. Rose needed fluids; there was no way around that. He'd brought a saline IV, just in case, hoping of course that he wouldn't need to use it. It wouldn't interfere with her body's response to the vaccine; it would simply introduce much needed fluids into her system. Still, he'd hoped it wouldn't be necessary. He debated moving her to the infirmary where he had monitors and ready access to other medications, just in case… But that was awfully negative thinking.

He hung the saline bag next to the bed and carefully inserted the port into her hand. He decided to see how she was after she'd had some fluids. If her heart was still affected, he would move her immediately.

The Doctor sat down to wait. His eyes moved from her face to the IV line to the bag, then back to her face again. He reached for her wrist to check her pulse more times than he cared to count, and the thermometer got more use in that hour or two than it had in all the years he'd owned it.

The IV bag was nearly empty when Rose's fever soared to 43. Her eyes opened, and she began muttering softly, hands moving weakly at her sides.

He stroked her hot forehead and said, "Sshh, Rose, it's all right. Try to stay still."

Her eyes were unfocused, despite the dilation of her pupils. She gasped once, then again, and he quickly pressed the stethoscope to her chest. Her heart was racing, and her breathing was labored. And then she convulsed.

She was so weak that she only jerked a few times, but he knew what was happening: she was having a febrile seizure. He had to get her fever down, and he needed to do it immediately. Quickly he disconnected the IV then gathered Rose into his arms and walked to the bathroom, turning on the tap in the tub then setting her gently on the edge. He held her up with one arm while he pulled the nightshirt over her head with the other.

She mumbled something incoherent, and her eyes moved to stare glassily at his face.

"It's all right," he repeated, running his hand over her back. Heat radiated from her skin, so hot against his palm.

Suddenly her arms were flailing, and he thought that she was seizing again. He knelt before her, wrapping his arms securely about her so that she wouldn't fall. Her arms continued to move, and he realized that she was sliding them around him. She was simply trying to hold on to him.

He cradled her head against his chest. "Hang on, Rose," he said. "I'm going to take care of you. You're going to be all right."

"Mmm," she murmured, and he thought that maybe, just maybe, she'd understood him.

When the tub was half-full, he pulled back to slip an arm beneath her knees. He moved her around so that her legs were in the water. She stared down at the tub, but she did not resist. He eased her body down, holding her head carefully so that it wouldn't fall back against the hard edge. He placed a folded towel behind her then lowered her head so that she could lie back as comfortably as possible.

Kneeling behind her, the Doctor rested one hand against Rose's cheek and the other over her chest. And then he waited. Her eyes were open, but he doubted that she could see clearly. Still, he spoke softly to her with soothing and barely sensible words and bent to press his cheek against hers.

Finally he felt her skin cooling. Her heart rate was slowing a little, too, and her breathing was less laboured. He kept her in the tub a few minutes more then lifted her out, wrapping a thick terry robe around her. As he did, she blinked and looked at him.

"Where'm I?" she murmured, eyes moving languidly about as she tried to understand what was happening.

"In the bathroom," he replied calmly.

"Bath… room?"

He picked her up and carried her across the room. "And now you're going back to bed, where it's nice and cosy."

She was confused, naturally, but he thought it best to downplay what had just happened. There would be time to explain later, if she felt a need to question it… if she even remembered the experience.

He sat her on the bed. The robe was damp, of course, and, while he'd wanted her to cool down he didn't want her to become chilled again. Leaving Rose for just a minute, he stepped to the dresser and rooted about. He found a pair of cotton pyjama bottoms but no matching top. There were several camisoles, however, so he supposed one would do; the flannel nightshirt had got wet.

Rose had slumped down to the mattress by the time he returned to her side. He managed to slip the pyjama bottoms on easily, for which he felt thankful. He lifted her shoulders so that she sat up again and untied the robe.

She glanced down, a fuzzily confused expression on her face when she saw her bare skin. She touched her belly with her fingertips then looked up at the Doctor.

He held out the camisole. "This is nice and dry," he said. "Let's put it on."

"Where… where'd my… nightie go?"

"It got wet in the bathroom," he answered honestly.

He slid the robe off then worked the camisole up over her arms and shoulders. She sat limply, compliant to his maneouvers as he managed to pull the little top down. He removed the robe before it dampened the sheets.

"Lie down now," Rose said softly.

"Yes." He lifted her legs onto the bed and placed a hand behind her head as she sank back.

He reached for the thermometer. "Let's see how you're doing."

"'M sick," she whispered confidentially, as though she were sharing a great secret with him.

He stroked her forehead. "Yes, I know, but you're going to be better soon."

He placed the themometer in her ear until the small light flashed. Her temperature was down, but it was still close to 40. She was watching his face, but he still wasn't sure that she was fully aware of what he was doing. He took up the stethoscope again to check her heart and lungs.

"Doctor?" she said softly.

He looked up. "Yes, Rose?"

"You're…" She lifted her hand to touch the instrument against her chest. "The Doctor."

"Today I am." And every fiber of his being wished he weren't, wished he didn't have to be.

He returned his attention to her heart. The slight arrhythmia persisted; he did not like that at all. A quick check of her skin told him that she remained dehydrated. She needed to finish the IV. He'd removed the port quickly in his haste to get her into the bath. He would need to reinsert it, but he thought that her hand was probably sore from the original needle stick. He lifted her other hand and rubbed an alcohol wipe over it.

"Rose, you might feel a little pinch in a moment, all right?" He slid the needle in smoothly before she could process his words. She flinched just a bit. He attached the IV line.

"Wha's that?" she asked hoarsely, eyes moving to the bag.

"Just some fluids. They'll make you feel much better."

She nodded. "'Kay."

He sat beside her, tasks completed for the moment, and rested his hand against her cheek. "Why don't you close your eyes and go back to sleep?"

She reached up and took his wrist weakly. "The vaccine…is it working?"

He nodded. "Yes. It is."

"An' tha's why… I feel… so crappy."

He stroked her warm cheek with his fingertips. "Yes, but you'll feel better soon. Just sleep now."

Like a very good patient, she obeyed without question.


	5. Chapter 5

Rose's body was less acquiescent to the Doctor's wishes. She slept, but her heart continued its irregular rhythm. The dehydration was resolving, yet the arrhythmia persisted.

The Doctor checked her heart for the fifth or sixth time since she'd fallen asleep and found no change for the better. Reluctantly admitting a modicum of defeat, he disconnected the IV line then pulled back the covers and slid his arms under her legs and shoulders. He lifted her easily, certain that she'd lost some weight during the arduous physical ordeal.

"We're taking a little trip now, Rose," he told her softly, but he doubted that she could hear him. "Not far, just a few steps away."

She stirred slightly, eyelids fluttering but remaining closed. He carried her along the corridors and through the open doorway to the clean, white room. He set her gently on the examination couch then quickly prepared the necessary equipment.

He returned to her side wheeling a trolley with a shoe box-sized device upon it. He tapped at several buttons, and an arm rose smoothly from the machine. He positioned the extension over her chest then removed a little remote from his pocket. His thumb hovered over the activation switch.

"Rose," he said, bending down to speak close to her ear, "there's a treatment I need to do—to help you. It shouldn't affect the course of the vaccine very much; at least I don't think it will. And it won't hurt, but you may feel some tingling or itching, and that's all right."

She didn't stir as he rested his fingertips over her heart then depressed the button.

* * *

She felt different. She remained too warm, and the achiness continued though the deep pain had receded. But it was something else that had roused her. She moved a hand languidly to scratch at her belly. Her nails raked over the skin, and she flinched in pain.

Her skin was very sensitive—too sensitive. A prickling sensation was dancing over the surface of her entire body.

Rose opened her eyes. The lights were dim, but she could see that she wasn't in her bedroom anymore. Her gaze flicked over her surroundings; she was in the infirmary. When had the Doctor moved her? Her recollections of recent events were somewhat muzzy, but she was certain she recalled his telling her that she was getting better. So what was she doing here?

Something must've happened—something serious enough to warrant the change of setting.

"Doctor?" she croaked, eyes searching the room for him.

There was no response, and within a few moments Rose realised that she was alone. She wriggled as she felt the strange prickling again. She lifted her hand, bringing it slowly to her face. She squinted at it in the dull illumination. The tiny hairs on her wrist and forearm were standing up. But they didn't look as fine as they should; weren't they thicker, coarser? And that sparking through her skin—that couldn't be normal.

She remembered the creature in Sir Robert's barn. Its skin had writhed as it changed, hair sprouting from every follicle. And what must that have felt like? It must have prickled, just as her skin did.

"Oh God," she whispered, eyes widening as the realisation struck her. She was changing. The vaccine hadn't worked; that must be why the Doctor had brought her here. He was probably trying something else, some other medicine or device… like the one positioned over her chest right now.

She itched terribly, and she scratched at her arms and belly again, gasping at the pain these actions brought but unable to stop because the itch was dreadful, and it meant that the transformation was happening. Her fingernails must be turning into claws, sharp and lethal spikes that could maim or kill with a single swipe.

Rose sat up, head swimming with fear. As soon as the change was complete, she'd be a monster, a fiend whose only instinct was to attack any living thing in sight. She had to get away before the Doctor returned. If she didn't, he wouldn't be able to escape her wanton wrath.

She slid down from the couch, feeling the coolness of the floor beneath her bare feet. Her legs were weak, but soon they'd be powerful—powerful enough to stalk through the corridors in search of prey. Rose stumbled from the room, mind reeling as she desperately tried to think of a way to protect the Doctor.

* * *

The mugs were almost too hot to keep in his hands, but the Doctor fore bore the discomfort without hesitation. He hadn't felt comfortable waiting for the water to cool sufficiently; he didn't want to leave Rose alone for more than a few minutes. But she'd been responding well to the treatment, heart beat nearly back to normal as the machine regulated the electrical impulses in her body, and he'd thought she'd enjoy a few sips of tea when she awoke. He'd spared only a few extra seconds to prepare a cup for himself, too—his one tiny indulgence, justified by the knowledge that the beverage would fortify his flagging energy. It had been a very long twenty-six hours since he'd seen that little scratch on Rose's side.

He slowed his steps just a bit as he neared the infirmary. There was no need to make any excess noise; he wanted Rose to sleep until she'd regained some strength, however long that might take.

He slipped into the room and set the mugs on the counter. As he turned toward the examination couch, he inhaled sharply. Rose was gone. He moved to the couch, pressing his palm over it to judge whether it still retained any of her heat. The soft fabric was cool; she must have got up just after he left.

She'd probably returned to her room; she'd never been fond of his infirmary. He walked quickly down the hallway and poked his head through her open door.

"Rose?" he called softly. The bed was empty, sheets and comforter pushed aside just as he'd left them.

Frowning, he stepped into the bath, half expecting to find her slumped on the floor. But the small chamber was quiet and still. He ran a hand through his hair, perplexed. Where would she have gone? He'd have passed her in the corridor if she were headed for the kitchen.

Her fever was still high enough to cause some disorientation, and now he worried that she'd become confused as she tried to find her bedroom. She could be wandering anywhere in the labyrinthine corridors of the TARDIS. The lingering results of the illness, too, could have caused her to fall or to lose consciousness, and she could be lying on a cold floor, too weak to rise.

He hurried out to the hallway again and called her name, but there was no response.

He checked all the nearest rooms—the library, the lounge, the gym—but all were untouched by Rose's presence. Frustration and worry washing over him, the Doctor returned to the console room.

* * *

Rose shambled down the hallway, panting and sweating, searching for something, anything that would prevent her from harming her friend. She passed the wardrobe room, sparing only a second to glance at the racks of clothing and open closets. She hobbled on, a vague idea forming. There was a room she'd seen once, some sort of storage area, and hadn't there been a vault? That was what she needed—a place to lock herself away, to keep the monster contained for as long as possible, as long as necessary to ensure the Doctor's safety.

She opened door after door, but the storage room eluded her. Her skin was prickling even more, and she was sweating profusely now, and surely that must be a sign that the change was imminent. Her vision blurred to a strange, greenish haze.

"No," she gasped, "not yet. Jus'… need… a little more…time."

She pushed open one more door, and there it was: The large storeroom lay before her. She stumbled toward the vault. The heavy door was open, but she grasped the handle and, using the last of her rapidly waning strength, pulled it shut behind her. It closed with a solid, irrevocable thud. She twisted the interior lock until she heard it click.

Rose sank down to the floor, trembling in terror as she felt herself began to turn into the beast.


	6. Chapter 6

The Doctor rested his hands over the central console and closed his eyes, concentrating on the low hum of his ship. She was aware of each part of her body, and with a little bit of focus and subtle direction, she could locate any living creature within her vast structure.

The Doctor's eyes shot open, and he shook his head. "What the hell are you doing in there?" he muttered, already hastening toward the corridor.

* * *

Rose lay curled in a ball, pressed up against the cool wall of the vault. There was little light within the chamber; a thin, dull streak hovered just beneath the door, but it provided scant illumination. Even so, her vision had changed; everything appeared to have a greenish haze clinging to it.

She was still shuddering, and now hair covered her eyes. The prickling sting across her skin had relented, finally, but pain was building in her temples and behind her eyes. Her heart was changing, too. The beat was strangely erratic yet insistently strong; she felt the organ thudding against her ribs, and she could hear the thumping reverberating through the vault.

But secreted away in here, she could keep the Doctor safe. She might thrash and crash about, howl and roar, but she would be contained within these walls. That knowledge gave her a small degree of comfort, and the terrible tightness in her chest eased just a bit.

"Rose?"

The word startled her as though it were a shot. She jerked and gasped in alarm, eyes automatically drawn to the thin stream of light beneath the door. The beam was broken now, something preventing all the light from reaching through the crack.

"Rose? Are you in there?" The Doctor's voice was louder. Something tapped at the door. "Rose?" He sounded more insistent now.

Her breathing became ragged, and her heart pounded fiercely. How had he found her? Didn't he understand that she presented a dreadful danger to him? She had to make him leave, get as far from her as possible... protect him from the wolf.

The door handle wiggled, but the lock prevented it from opening. "Rose! Can you hear me?"

"Go away," she gasped out.

"Rose? What are you doing in there?"

"Jus'—you have to get out, go away."

"Can you get to the lock?"

"No. Jus' leave. Please. Now."

"Rose, I'm sorry I left you alone. I didn't realise you'd wake…"

"Go away!" she repeated urgently. "Get the hell away from me!"

She heard a whirring, a high-pitched noise that hurt her ears for just an instant, and then the lock clicked. The door was swinging open.

Rose hauled herself to her feet and scrabbled back against the far wall. Light flooded the vault, and then the Doctor was moving toward her, arms outstretched. "It's all right," he was saying, "I didn't mean to—"

"No! Don't come near me!" she panted, fingers scraping against the wall.

But he wouldn't listen; he was close enough to touch her now, and one hand reached for her arm. She flinched at the touch of his cool skin.

"Please," she sobbed, trying to gulp in air that refused to enter her lungs, "I don't want to hurt you."

He froze and dropped his hand, brow furrowing in confusion. "Hurt me? Rose, what are you talking about?"

"I can't stop it," she wheezed. "It didn't work—I'm sorry, maybe it was me, maybe I wasn't strong enough—but I'm changin', an' I won't be able to stop myself, won't know what I'm doin' anymore, so you have to get away, as far away as you can, because the wolf will kill you—" She could barely speak; the words rasped from her tightened throat.

But he understood them. Slowly he lifted his hand again to wrap it gently around her arm.

"Rose, look at me," he instructed, his voice firm yet soft, and her gaze moved inexorably to his face. His eyes held hers. Vaguely she felt something press against her chest. "You need to breathe, Rose," he said. "I want you to breathe with me, though your nose, not your mouth. In," he nodded, "now out. In," she heard him inhale, "now out," then he exhaled. Automatically her body copied his actions.

When her breathing had steadied, he moved the hand he'd rested over her chest up to brush the hair away from her eyes and cup her cheek, keeping a gentle grip on her arm all the while.

"You're not changing, Rose," he told her. "The vaccine worked just as it was intended."

She shook her head. "I felt it," she croaked. "My skin was transformin', an' I was growin' hair, an' my nails were becomin' claws—"

"No," he said, keeping her gaze, "that was just the illness."

Rose's eyes felt hot and wet. She blinked. "Are you sure?" she whispered.

"Yes."

She saw the truth in the depth of his gaze. The fear drained from her, leaving her to sag against him. He held her steadily then lifted her into his arms. She was exhausted, and she permitted her head to loll against his chest as he carried her out of the vault and back to her room.

The Doctor placed Rose on the bed. Her eyes were half closed, and her body was limp. He settled her head against the pillow, resting his hand over her forehead. Her temperature was still higher than he liked, but it hadn't increased significantly since her little trip to the vault. He supposed that was a good sign.

He checked her heart again and found that the rhythm remained stable—quite a feat considering the emotional turmoil she'd just experienced. The device he'd used on her had proven effective, of course, and he hadn't left the infirmary until he was certain that her heart was beating normally. But still, he was relieved that the effects appeared permanent.

He was just pulling the covers over her when he noticed the red streaks peeking out from beneath the hem of her camisole. The little garment had ridden up at some point, and the pale skin between her hipbone and ribcage was exposed. He slid the camisole up to reveal several scratches. His eyes moved over her body, and he found more scratches on her forearms.

Oh, he'd been an idiot—a complete git—to leave her alone like that. She hadn't needed tea; she had needed him.

He ran his fingers gently over the scrapes on her belly. She wriggled a bit and began to open her eyes.

Quickly he rested his fingertips against her temple. "Sleep, Rose," he said.

She sighed, and her eyes closed. He hurried to the infirmary to retrieve the regenerative gel. He smoothed it over the scratches on her arms then rubbed gently at the dark marks marring the pale flesh on her stomach. As the redness began to fade, he tucked the blankets around her then bent to kiss her warm forehead.

"Sweet dreams, Rose," he told her. "Only the loveliest ones for you."

* * *

**_The story will be fully concluded in the Epilogue._**


	7. Epilogue

_**Author's Note:** Thanks to all who have read and reviewed! Here is the epilogue to tie up a few loose ends. **  
**_

* * *

_**Epilogue**_

The moment she woke, memories flooded her. Rose lifted a shaking hand to examine the smooth, soft skin. There was no coarse hair, and her nails remained short. For just a moment she wondered if she'd had a particularly nasty dream.

"Morning, Rose!" The Doctor's voice floated warmly across the room.

She saw that he stood in the doorway holding a tray in his hands. He was smiling, but his hair was ruffled and his shirt rumpled, and all in all he looked as though he'd had a hell of a night.

Still, his smile was infectious, and she met it with a grin of her own. He deposited the tray on the night table then sat in the chair beside the bed.

"So, how're you feeling?" he asked. His smile faded just a bit as his eyes searched her face.

"Better," she answered honestly. She pushed herself up, rather disappointed at the degree of effort this simple action seemed to require.

He nodded. "Your strength'll return soon. Some food'll help."

She glanced at the tray, and Rose saw a mug of hot cocoa and two slices of toast with strawberry jam.

"Smells good," she said.

"Ah, return of the appetite! That's always a good sign. Well, I say always. I mean usually, because sometimes it's a sign of something nasty like a parasite or one of those poisons that drain the energy from your cells—"

She must have frowned, because he abruptly changed his tack.

"So, a nice cup of cocoa and a few bites of toast, and you'll be right as rain in no time." He handed her the mug, pausing to be certain that she could manage without assistance.

Rose took a sip of the rich chocolate. "Mmm," she murmured. "'S good. D'you make it?"

"Secret's in the chocolate. I use Yru-Yruaba whenever I can—best stuff in the universe. Valrhona'll do in a pinch, though, but you have to add a wisp of orange peel to get the same taste."

His rambling did not distract her; she knew that he was watching her with a solicitous eye. She drank about half of the mug's contents then set it back on the night table. "So it's over then?" she asked.

He leaned forward and took her hand. "Yes, Rose, it's over and done with."

She nodded. "Thanks."

His brow furrowed. "I don't deserve it."

"What d'you mean?" she asked, sincerely confused. He'd stayed with her, taken care of her, seen her through the chills and fever and pain, and cured her.

"I shouldn't have left, not even for a moment," he replied quietly. His hand raked through his hair. "That made it all so much worse for you."

"What're you talkin' about?"

"In the infirmary," he said, voice rising slightly. "You woke up alone, and I wasn't there. You felt strange, probably as though your skin was tingling, and of course you'd think there was something wrong, and it was a logical step for you to think that you were going to change…" He closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. "All my fault, putting you through all that. I'm sorry."

"Hey, did you just call me logical?" she quipped.

That earned a tiny smile from him. "Suppose I did."

"Hmm." She slipped her hand back into his. "So why was I feelin' like that? Did the vaccine cause that weird prickling?"

"No, not directly. Your heart was beating a bit erratically—a fairly common effect of dehydration, which was caused by the high fever. But I didn't want it to continue, so I took you to the infirmary to give you a few minutes with a machine that basically recalibrates the electrical fields in your body. It did its job on your heart, which is just fine now, by the way, but it caused that sensation in your skin."

"But I thought everything was changin'," she began. "I could've sworn I was growin' claws an' hair, but I s'pose that was just my imagination."

"Fueled by the fever." He rested his palm against her cheek. "Temperature's perfectly normal now. I like that in a girl."

She smiled.

"Really Rose," he said, momentarily somber again, "I'm the one who should say thank you."

"You? What for?"

"For your concern about me. That's why you ran off and hid, isn't it?" He didn't wait for a response. "And I know you must've felt terrible at the time—you were still feverish and weak, yet you managed to tramp all over the TARDIS and hide away just so you wouldn't hurt me."

She leaned in to rest her forehead against his. "You'd do the same for me."

His hands moved up to wrap around her shoulders. "Yes." He embraced her fully then, and she snuggled against him.

After perhaps thirty seconds the Doctor pulled back and reached for the plate of toast. "Better try this before it's stone cold."

Rose nibbled at a corner, then took a larger bite when she realized that the toast was still pleasantly warm and crispy. As she ate, he gathered up a few items that he'd left in the room. She saw him tuck the thermometer and stethoscope into his pocket.

"Back to normal now," he proclaimed, sweeping a hand across the room. "Well, really it's not, because normally your clothes would be all over the place, but I tidied up a bit while I was in here—"

She arched an eyebrow at him then chuckled. "I'm just glad that I'm still me."

"Me too," he said warmly. "And the really good news is that you're now officially immune to lycanthropy. So even if you do get bitten or scratched, you won't have to worry a bit."

"S'pose that's good. But let's still try to avoid werewolves in the future, yeah?"

"Yeah." He was in the doorway now. "If you feel up to it, why don't you have a shower and get dressed. I have some soup waiting in the kitchen."

"You're a right Jamie Oliver today, aren't you?" She grinned at him.

"Who's that then?" he asked, for once lacking a bit of knowledge.

"'S not important," she replied, climbing out of bed.

"Right." He watched her for a few moments, probably assessing whether she was steady on her feet. Satisfied, he left the room.

Rose walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. A glance in the mirror showed that she was a mess. She ran her hand through her hair; it was thickly matted.

As steam filled the small room, she removed her clothes and stepped into the wonderfully hot stream. She closed her eyes as water washed over her. She squeezed a generous amount of green apple scented shampoo onto her palm and began working it through her hair. As the lather formed and fragrance tickled her nose, Rose sighed in contentment.

In the tiled room, the sigh echoed, a low and gentle growl of satisfaction.


End file.
